


Age before beauty

by CheapLemonIceLolly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Injury Recovery, M/M, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly
Summary: “I got shampoo in my fucking eye,” Dylan whines.  “Ow.  How am I supposed to do anything with this stupid bag on my hand?”





	Age before beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Another short Tumblr ficlet, so if you follow me @lemonicelolly you may have seen this before! From the following prompt:
> 
> _I would love a fic about Dylan Strome being loved and cared for and treated with compassion and empathy and getting to love other people!!!_
> 
> This is specifically set in 2024, if you’re wondering, on the assumption WCOH will be held every 4 years as was supposedly planned. I don't know how likely it is we'll ever see another WCOH to be honest, but this is fiction, I can do what I want :D

“Mother _fucker!_ ”

“What?” Connor says urgently, bursting into the bathroom. “What’s wrong?”

“I got shampoo in my fucking eye,” Dylan whines. “ _Ow_. How am I supposed to do anything with this stupid bag on my hand?”

Connor makes a dangerous noise, so Dylan wipes a little window in the condensation on the shower door with his one good hand so he can peer out with his one good eye.

“Um,” he says. “Didn’t mean to, like. Worry you?”

He tries for a winning smile, but Connor looks unimpressed.

“I thought you’d actually hurt yourself,” he says, frowning.

“I _did_ hurt myself,” Dylan protests. “I’m blind in one eye, look.” He can still feel the shampoo dripping down the left side of his face. It’s really hard to get a sensible amount of shampoo when you only have one hand to work with. Why didn’t they buy those pump action shampoo bottles instead of the normal squeezy kind? That’d make having a stupid broken hand so much easier. Well, okay, having a broken hand would still definitely suck, but at least he’d be able to fucking _bathe_ without doing himself any further injury. “Washing your hair with one hand is really _hard_.”

Connor snorts. “Yeah, I remember.” 

Dylan squeezes his eye shut even tighter and tries to wipe the suds off his face with his forearm, which is slightly less soapy than his hand is, but it doesn’t quite work, and while he’s flailing he skids a little in the shampoo he’s dripped all over the floor of the shower and nearly falls. It’s fine, though, because he throws his hand out to catch his fall. Unfortunately it’s the broken one. This time he doesn’t swear, just lets out a small, high pitched (but still very manly) yelp.

“Oh my god,” Connor sighs, and tugs his shirt off over his head. “Just...hold still and try not to break anything else for a second, please.”

“Only ‘cause you said please,” says Dylan, now squinting, hobbling _and_ cradling his throbbing hand in its stupid makeshift plastic bag cover while soap drips down the side of his face. Connor strips efficiently and gets into the shower with him, and touches Dylan’s shoulders carefully as he turns him around like he’s checking to see he’s still in one piece.

“Aw, Davo,” Dylan grins, or as close as can get with one eye squeezed shut. “You love me.”

“I do,” Connor agrees, and his expression softens just a tiny bit. “Now shut up and tip your head back, will you?”

Dylan closes his eyes and lets Connor guide him under the showerhead, and feels gentle fingers rinse the soap from his face. Connor works his hands through Dylan’s hair next, massaging the shampoo into his scalp and sending tingles down the back of his neck. Having someone else wash his hair is a rare luxury, and Dylan sighs and relaxes into it, feeling tension ease out of his shoulders that he hadn’t even noticed he was carrying.

“Jesus, how much shampoo did you use?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan admits. “I just kind of squeezed the bottle over my head.” Connor snorts. “Look, you can’t measure it out into your hand when you’ve only got one hand.”

He cracks an eye open carefully as Connor rinses the suds out of his hair, squinting sideways so he can see him. He looks tense, his mouth all tight at the corners, but maybe he’s just concentrating.

“From memory I’m pretty sure you called me an idiot when I did this,” Connor says, focusing on a spot near his ear that’s apparently extra soapy.

“Well, you _were_ an idiot.”

Connor gives him a very pointed look.

“Blocking a shot,” Dylan says, with as much dignity as he can muster while naked with a plastic bag taped to his hand and somebody else washing his hair, “is very different from trying to punch someone.”

“True,” Connor nods. “Blocking a one timer with your fucking hand is definitely much stupider.”

“In my defence,” Dylan tells him, “the _with my hand_ part was not intentional. And besides, it’s only one finger. Who really needs their pinkie finger anyway?”

He smiles hopefully but Connor says nothing, which is probably fair enough. Dylan tries a different approach, snaking an arm around his waist and pulling him close, skin on wet skin.

“And did Mathews score on that play?” he presses cheerfully. “No he did not. You’re welcome, Canada.”

“You know nobody actually cares about the World Cup, right?” Connor says grumpily, not giving in to the hug. “At least when I broke my hand I was a kid. I had an excuse for being an idiot.”

“Hey,” Dylan frowns. “Enough, okay? I get it, you’re mad. I’m not that happy about it either.” Maybe the World Cup doesn’t mean anything when it’s your third one, but when it’s the first time you’ve made the team it still feels like a big deal. And anyway, he’s got enough grief from his own team about getting injured in a made up tournament that doesn’t matter, and he’s already worried about whether he’ll be ready to start the season on time, all of which Connor already knows. He doesn’t need that at home too.

Connor deflates and presses his nose into Dylan’s cheek. “Sorry,” he says, putting his arms around him. “I’m _not_ mad, I just--” he makes a small, unhappy noise.

“What?” Dylan prods gently.

“I know it’s dumb,” Connor mumbles. “But I don’t like you getting hurt.”

“I mean, neither do I,” Dylan says, and his irritation fades into fondness. “Sorry, bud. You picked a hockey player, it goes with the territory.”

“Hmph. Any chance you’re thinking of retiring early?” 

Dylan laughs and kisses him on the side of the head. He tastes like warm water and soap, and Dylan’s stupid broken hand is aching because he’s due for more painkillers, and the water’s been running so long it’s starting to get cold, but he’s pretty sure he couldn’t be happier.

“You first.”


End file.
